


Orianna the Wingless

by Espernyan



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: (tagging them is a call-out so now they have to actually consider it), Amnesia, Blood, Bloodshed involves Bloodshed, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Just Trying To Help, Nonbinary Anri, Ornery Firekeeper, POV First Person, POV Lesbian Character, Platonic Cuddling, Some friends' Ashen Ones may show up later, Temporary Character Death, Trauma, they're both MLM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espernyan/pseuds/Espernyan
Summary: Orianna the Herald goes on a magical journey through the land of Lothric, has gay feelings, and is generally upset that someone stole her wings.Oh, and suffers.She's just trying to help, but that almost seems to make things worse.





	1. Chapter 1

Dread twisted like a cold knife in my belly as the realization I’d been grasping after, blind amidst the all-obscuring fog of amnesia, found my fingertips- brushed thoughtlessly across them.

My wings were gone.

The wings I’d suffered for, sheltered under, wrapped around the woman I loved. The wings I was born with, called ‘monster’ for. _My_ wings.

_Gone_.

The feeling of scar-flesh beneath my fingertips as I scrubbed clean the blades of my shoulders was the only indication they had ever been.

I wanted to retch, but the thought of the poor Firekeeper hearing me bade me to suppress the urge.

They called me Herald and ‘ashen one’ and Unkindled, but I was a sorceress. A favored soul of my goddess. A warrior-priestess, a holy mage, a…

Ah.

‘Favored Soul’ had been my title, hadn’t it?

_Orianna, Favored Soul of…_

I didn’t remember the name of my goddess. Nor Her domain, not truly. It was something lovely and good, something well-worth fighting for, crusading for, championing, but… what? Love? Beauty? Happiness? Safety?

All of these feelings were associated with Her, I knew, but… to not know by rote as well as I knew by heart, what sort of devotee was I?

_Orianna, Favored Soul of She-Cannot-Recall._

That Yuria woman, of Londor?

She called me a Lord. Or, rather- well, specifically, she asked, _“Thou’rt a Lord, art thou not?”_

The masked woman certainly had a lovely voice, but the way she hid her face… it reminded me that I – wretch that I must be, for this failing haunts me still – could not remember the face of the woman I loved.

_Had_ loved?

I toweled off and called out to the woman who hid her eyes beneath a silver crown. “Firekeeper? Might you help me re-dress? The breastplate yet troubles me.”

“Of course, ashen one.”

Being nude in front of her didn’t trouble me overmuch; the woman was blind, and, frankly, far more practiced at donning steel armor than I. We’d only known one another for a matter of days, but already I trusted the Firekeeper- enough to let her help me dress, which, I suppose, really rather illustrates that effectively enough, doesn’t it?

Her nimble hands adjusted my tunic as soon as the fabric had settled on my shoulders, giving an abrupt, but minute twist which made it rest much more comfortably over my underclothes. She cinched it snugly, but not over-tightly, about my midsection, and I took the liberty of lacing up my own trousers, thank you very much. I was bent down – pulling my boots on – when something soft and very warm and shaped like a Firekeeper pressed up against my back.

Extra credit for those of you who can guess who _that_ was.

Stiffening, I stammered, “F-Firekeeper?”

“Bestill thyself, ashen one.” She said, her ever-calm, soothing tone thickly underlined with what I took as wry amusement.

… And then she buckled a leather belt about my waist.

My heart was pounding and I felt like an idiot- and she must have been able to tell, because she crowed pleasedly, a happy sort of sound, and puffed light, warm breath on the back of my neck. I felt it through my hair, and tried to think about how the Firekeeper was like an oven rather than dwell upon her proximity.

“Ashen one, I mean thee no discomfort, only- I am blind, and thou’rt taller still than I am accustomed to.”

I relaxed a little. “And you can’t _smell_ that I’m nearly two meters tall,” I said, letting out a chuckle, “no more than you can hear what I look like. I understand.”

The Firekeeper stepped back and let me turn around to face her, and I could’ve sworn I saw a smile beginning to tug at the corners of her pale lips.

I won’t pretend she wasn’t very cute, but I’d known her for a matter of days, perhaps a week-- week and a half? Not long enough. Amnesia or no, I knew my last relationship – or whatever that had been – had happened quickly and been... fraught with misfortune, to the point I think it may have almost killed me. Killed me in the time before I woke up from such things, that is.

Whether or not I survived it, I had no clue, but it had wreaked havoc on me both mentally and emotionally. It wasn’t an experience I was eager to repeat.

So- sure, I _was_ quite fond of the Firekeeper. She was pretty. Kind. Eager to help or offer advice. But I wasn’t ready to ask her hand in marriage, either.. Belatedly, I recalled that I had once been warm, too, as if afire within – and had once been near-proof to flame, too. Both qualities that seemed to have faded, in death, though the former was a characteristic I was only ever able to aware of secondhand.

“I might hear what thou look’st like yet,” she said, almost mischievously, “were I to take it from thy lips.”

Did I say _almost_ mischievously?

Sorry, turns out I’m an idiot. Or a liar, I guess? It’s a story, so you get the information as I did. It’d be an awfully boring story otherwise, right?

Regardless, I was able to determine at that point that the Firekeeper was _probably_ flirting. It felt nice, to be honest. Being flirted with. Much better than doting on an idiot warrior with about as much regard for me as she had for her own well-being. Then again, she may have been a pirate or something? I didn’t exactly remember, but it certainly would’ve explained why it was all give and no take.

None of this is to say she was bad to me, or even anything but kind. As far as I could (and can) recall, she’d never mistreated me, either, just… I’m loathe even now to call it neglect, but truthfully I don’t know enough to know for certain, and- I know that I’ve had a rough time of things, and that people who have been… hurt… will often downplay things, and I myself am most certainly guilty of it, but this is not one of those things. If she gave me half the attention one should give their partner, then I needed twice as much attention from her as one should need from their partner.

Oh. Goddess, I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be relaying the story, not- not defending my ex-girlfriend.

… That makes me sound more abused, doesn’t it? Right. Listen, I’m an emissary of a goddess and can throw fireballs and cast healing spells and- I’m really not making my case very well, am I?

Just- trust me when I say she was an idiot, not an abuser, alright? She was as dumb as I am self-conscious about making people feel misled about my life experiences.

…

I knelt down to tie my boot.

“Were you born blind?” I asked, unsure what to tell her if that was the case.

“No,” she replied evenly, “I lost my eyes when I became a Fire Keeper.”

I didn’t press the poor thing to elaborate. Still, it meant that I didn’t have to worry about colors and such.

“Well,” I said, “I’m tall, as you’ve noticed. Fairly well-built, I think, though, uh-” I cleared my throat, “-not the shapeliest woman alive – _undead_? You know what I meant.”

She stifled a giggle.

“Or- the shape’s there, but the meat isn’t? But you’re helping me dress, you can _feel_ all that. Um- I’m pretty pale, and my hair is… long-ish? And black as pitch. My lips– _Ah, should I have started with this? Since you’re so interested in them, I mean._ ” The flushing of her cheeks brought a grin to my face. “My lips almost match my hair. When I first woke up, I thought it was bad makeup, but, no, they’re just... dark gray or black. I’m not really sure which. Hard to get a good look at them.”

“I’d offer to assist thee, ashen one, but...”

I snorted. It wasn’t a cute sound, but she acted like it was.

Switching to my other boot, I continued, “My eyes are like a cat’s. With the, uh- slit pupils? And they do the flashing thing in the dark. Supposedly they have eyes like that because it helps them gauge distances?” I gestured to my hammer-spear, and, despite being blind, she followed the motion of my hand, realized – or _remembered_ – what I must have been indicating, and nodded.

“And that is most helpful for a warrior who wields a spear.”

“Exactly! I don’t- it doesn’t seem like it’s a big difference at all, but I’ve always had a preference for spears, y’know? It’s neat to think that my eyes might have been a part of that.” I trailed off a little, almost becoming self-conscious before realizing I had no reason to be. Or- telling myself that, anyways. “Even when I used a staff, it was a staff that doubled as a spear. Or the other way around. Whichever, really. Um- my neck’s kinda long, I think? And I- this is gonna sound a little silly, but-- I put on eyeliner _once_ and it hasn’t budged? Or- wait, was it my eyes that always look this way, and I paint my lips?”

The Firekeeper saved me from my existential crisis expertly, licking the pad of her thumb and rubbing at the corner of my mouth.

“I feel no paint, ashen one. Thy lips are grey.”

I couldn’t help but grin a little at that. “Right, and that’s why it’s dark eye makeup or bust.” I stopped and wiped my mouth, and she grinned, which I took to mean she wasn’t offended. “I think beauty is part of my goddess’… _purview_? One of Her domains. Helping people pretty themselves up is part of my duty, as is spreading love in general.”

My voice caught in my throat when I realized I didn’t need to describe my wings to the Firekeeper. No more did I need to tell her of my lost limbs than she needed to show me the eyes that had been plucked from her skull.

Part of me was missing.

An emptiness swelled inside me, a dark, unseemly thing.

I wondered if perhaps this was ‘Hollowing’.

“Does something trouble thee, ashen one?”

I smiled brightly at the blind lady.

“No.” I said, and it was the truth because I _made it_ the truth.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome home, ashen one.” The Firekeeper greeted me cheerfully, snow-white braid swishing as she turned to face the whooshing of the bonfire which heralded my arrival.

Heralded the Herald, if you will.

I was just returning from the ‘Road of Sacrifices’, which- I mean, it sounds about as pleasant as it is, really, and all those bird-people rather hurt to look at.

How come _they_ get to have _their_ wings, huh?

On the subject of bonfires. The coiled sword was... cool-looking, at least, I guess? Like a humongous drill with a handle and a handy little (big) ring for a pommel, so one could hang it from their belt, or run a rod through it and possibly use it as one turns a tap-wrench. The ritual to light the bonfire had involved merely thrusting it into the floor amidst the ashes, though, and, being a holy woman myself, I couldn’t help but wonder what the significance of it was. Was the twisted blade meant to evoke the symbol of the caduceus? I doubted as much, but had seen the winged staff entwined with snakes a few times in this land of Lothric, and couldn’t dismiss the possibility.

My gut feeling was something to do with cycles. In a land of life, death, and rebirth – for that was the cycle in Lothric, the land of Undead, make no mistake – it seemed more pertinent. Indeed, this ‘Fire’ they spoke of sounded very much as if it had…

No, that’s not quite true. They never spoke of death or rebirth. Or- not of past deaths. Only that it neared death, and they sought to stave it off.

Did it not cycle? Did they fear the idea of cycling, and thus strive to burn symbols of it, to embed them in blessed bonfires?

“Hey.” I bowed a little at the waist, and, as if she could see me, the Firekeeper stifled a laugh.

My cheeks heated, but I paid them no heed.

Instead, I stepped close to whisper, “Firekeeper, have you met that Sirris woman?”

Without thinking, I tilted my head towards where the aforementioned woman sat, somewhere along the steps which ringed the inner chamber of Firelink Shrine, because I, Orianna, am a-

I almost said ‘queer woman.’ Nearly walked into that one, eh?

“The woman who cautioned thee against fraternization?”

A grin found my lips. “The very same.”

“And thou wishest now to fraternize?” I knew an eyebrow was raised beneath that silver blindfold of hers.

Let none say the Firekeeper was anything but brimming with wit. She was certainly willing to tease. I should’ve gone to Irina to talk about this. Clerics of a feather flock together?

No?

I shook away thoughts about my most trusted advisors both being blind women.

Advis _e_ rs, if you prefer, but if you’re going to insist that one spelling is more correct than the other simply because of different suffix choice then perhaps you, too, ought to seek the counsel of some lovely blind ladies?

But I digress- again.

“She certainly seems like an interesting person, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A lovely knight indeed,” agreed the Firekeeper with a smile, “thou’st taken a fancy to her, then?”

Admittedly? I sort of had.

But my lovely friend knew that full well, so I played coy– _feigned_ playing coy? It’s ‘playing coy’ when one is actually being coy, but I was _playing at_ playing coy. Just so we’re being clear, here.

“Mayhap.” I said with a hum, and wondered if the Firekeeper would pick up on that being a bit of a nudge at her charmingly-archaic manner of speaking.

She put a hand – small, soft, and covered in the tell-tale, reddened splotches of discoloration characteristic of burn scars – on my shoulder, unbothered by my spear and shield, and said, “Fret not, ashen one. Word of thy deeds and manner shall surely find her ear so long as she lingers here.” She smirked. “We refrain when thou’rt about, but we denizens of Firelink are ever-eager to sing the praises of our Champion of Ash.”

Turning to look over my shoulder, I shot a meaningful glance at Hawkwood, and this time the Firekeeper didn’t seem immediately sure of what I was doing.

“It’s hard to imagine _Hawkwood_ proclaiming my greatness.” I mused aloud, if only for her sake.

“Even he, crestfallen though he is.”

“Huh.”

The Firekeeper tittered and stepped back a little, though she let her fingertips dance up my neck to trace the line of my jaw with her movement. Her touch lingered on my chin a little, exploring – gauging its shape. As she did this, she spoke up again.

“Ashen one, this may be of interest to thee; Andre has told me that thy spear is a holy weapon, sacred to the Blades of the Darkmoon.”

“… And Sirris is one of them?”

“Perhaps, but I would’st caution thee: do not count thy hens before they hatch.”

I would have nodded, but she was still playing with my chin, and while speaking didn’t seem to bother her much, I wasn’t prepared to keep the girl from indulging herself, even if I didn’t entirely understand her fascination with my mandible.

“Fair enough, I suppose,” I said, and paused, adding, “I appreciate this, you know. And- you can use my name, if you want. ‘Ori,’ even, if you prefer.”

She flashed that wry grin of hers and replied, “I shall take that into consideration, ashen one.”

The ornery little shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuria proves herself to be, canonically, a big softie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, speak of the Darkmoon!
> 
> This one's short.

If I was a lying hack, I might open with something like, _‘I am not ashamed to admit my heart leapt in my breast when fair Sirris turned her gaze so fondly in my direction,’_ but, _Goddess_ , I’m still embarrassed about it _now_. Meaning _right_ _now_ , as I narrate this. It’s weird, too, like secondhand, empathetic embarrassment, but for my past self.

No, my heart leapt when those icy-blue eyes settled on me-- when she smiled, ever-so-slightly, at the sight of me, and I am loathe to admit it. Loathe to admit that I apparently never learned.

The feminine silhouette cast by her armor was striking. Elegant and beautiful. Plate and chainmail, alchemically treated with silver, immaculately detailed pauldrons – a blue skirt over a skirt of mail, a veil of pure, white silk over her head, secured by a silver headband, matched by a silken shawl about her upper arms.

Honestly, just. _Goddess_. Even her nose was cute. Her _nose_. Hell. And her eyebrows were fine, her chin… soft? Smooth. Small, but not too small, like her nose.

“Hello again.” She said. Her voice was… she spoke properly, but kindly, her speech pleasantly-accented and composed. Hers was at once similar to and very unlike the Firekeeper’s voice. The Firekeeper often spoke… deliberately, and there was a quiet determination about her which carried into her voice with exceptional clarity. Sirris, on the other hand, while thoughtful, thought _between_ sentences, and sounded very much as I thought a lovely knight ought to.

“I have since heard a great deal about you. For one, that you are most gentle of heart.”

I gawked at her, and must have stammered a _“Really?”_ or the like, because she smiled, just a little, tiny bit, and nodded slowly.

She continued, “I, too, am bound by duty, but can offer you my sign. I hear that cordial intrusion lays the path to embers.”

The knight leaned forward, her chainmail rustling slightly. Her weapon, an estoc, sat behind her, in its scabbard.

“If I can be of help, by all means, do call upon me.”

“Of course.” I nodded. “I would likewise aid you whenever possible, if you aren’t opposed…?”

By her surprised blinking, I surmised this wasn’t an offer Sirris received particularly regularly.

“It would be an honor,” she said, and rose to her feet, picking up her weapon without looking, “for now, however, I must take my leave.”

She strode towards the bonfire in the center of the shrine, stopping and turning on her heel halfway between it and myself, whereupon she took a knee and bowed her head, her left arm relaxed, holding her blade at her side, parallel to the ground. Her right arm was bent out before her, elbow set square, as if in salute – only it wasn’t ‘as if in salute’, it _was_ in salute. The whole gesture was executed with practiced ease, and it confused me at least as much as it made my heart race.

“Sirris?” I asked, not sure whether to be worried or flattered or whatever else I might be, and she raised her head, locking eyes with me, freezing me in pools of icy blue.

“Blessings of the moon upon your journey, Lady Orianna.”

I didn’t manage to come up with an adequate question before she stood, knelt far less dreamil- _formally_ at the bonfire, and disappeared in a swirl of ash and a surging of the flame.

…

_Lady?_

“Lady Yuria boasted of thee most enthusiastically, Champion of Ash,” the Firekeeper said from behind me, “and in Dame Sirris found an eager listener.”

Ludleth, the Little Lord, chuckling from his throne on high, added, “And the tales of thy gallant rescues, relayed by Master Corynx and gentle Irina themselves, were equally-welcomed.”

“But- all I did was let them out of a cage and a cell, respectively?”

“After slaying thy way to that cage and cell, indeed. Pyromancy and spear-strokes make plenty noise.”

“Ah.”

In all honesty, I hadn’t considered fighting my way to them out of the ordinary in any way, except in that Irinia’s cell was guarded by animate skeletons, which I hadn’t seen before then. Or since, come to think of it.

“Did’st thou think it unremarkable?”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “I did. In Lothric, I can’t even _relieve myself_ without having to spear some Hollow. Forgive me if fighting my way to release someone from a cage feels no more remarkable than fighting my way to and from _everywhere else_ , but it’s _really_ not that big a deal.”

Yuria’s voice broke in amidst the hyenas two – a gallant hero, come to my rescue! Her darkened figure lurked beneath the archway, just beyond and opposite of the alcove wherein the Shrine Handmaid sat. She leaned, arms folded across her chest, against the stones supporting the actual arch at the end of the short hall, her billed mask angled casually in my direction.

“Honourable Lord of Hollows,” she said, “I would discuss a matter with thee.”

“Of course, Yuria.” I bowed my head at the Firekeeper and the Little Lord in turn and turned to stride towards the woman who had founded the Sable Church of Londor.

And thus was I delivered from the affectionate teasing of Ludleth and the Firekeeper.

When we arrived at her usual haunt, near the long-stilled body of Yoel, she turned to me and spoke, “Oh, good Hollow. I take no pleasure in these tidings, I assure thee, but… Orbeck of Vinheim is a cause of much consternation.”

Likely sensing my confusion, or else looking at my expression, she explained, “He proclaimeth himself Lord of Hollows. Left to his own devices, he may be apt to imperil thy rule. I beg thee-- fall to this matter yarely, lest we are unraveled. Decisiveness is the mark of a true monarch...”

For a moment, I considered this. “If I’m to be a monarch, is it within my power to grant fiefs? If so, I might offer to take the scholar as a vassal, should he prove his fealty. The access to knowledge is probably what he really wants, isn’t it?”

Yuria cocked her head to one side, demeanor turning pensive for a moment. “… Perhaps, Lord.”

Noticing her unvoiced concern, I placed a hand on her shoulder and offered an appropriately-reassuring smile. “I’ll be wary of him, Yuria.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sirris of the Sunless Realms?  
> More like, Sirris of the Dreamy Realms.
> 
> Gott'er.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress, banter, and flirting.  
> Shameless, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eygon is the worst girl.

I missed my wings.

My boots were filled with horrible, poisonous, _stinging_ muck. My armor _coated_ in the stuff. Some stupid asshole – probably a stupid _racist_ asshole – had seen fit to chop off three of my bodyparts, and their crimes meant that I got to trudge though a toxic fu-

Ah. _Ahem_.

-through a toxic swamp.

I didn’t fight a damn thing. Just scrambled about the godforsaken hell-hole on all fours, snatching anything that looked useful and avoiding anything that looked like the result of a wild night with a were-goat.

I’d lit two of the three flames needed to open the gate – remember when I had wings? When I could just _fly over_ stupid locked gates?

… I mean, I don’t _remember_ remember, but- I don’t have to. It’s… instinct, maybe? Let me try and give an example. If someone placed a door – just a door and its frame, no walls around it – in the middle of a path you were walking down, and insisted you light three ceremonial fires to open said door, then you, were you in a hurry of some sort, or else just not in the mood for whimsy and tomfoolery-

If you didn’t have the time or patience for their odd door-game, and they weren’t willing to listen to reason, if for some reason you felt obligated to go along with their strange door ritual at least in some regard – you would just walk around the door, wouldn’t you?

You would just _walk around it._

That _stupid_ -

I used to curse in the (a?) demonic tongue, but I can scarcely remember a word of it, and I’m not quite willing to get especially vulgar with you. Maybe I’ll try to think up an alternative, so I don’t have to keep _catching_ myself like this.

For me? Flying over the gate is the same as walking around that door in the road. Only, some psychopath had apparently felt the need to dismember me.

It wasn’t just my wings, but at the time I either hadn’t yet noticed or had blinded myself to it until such a time as I was ready to confront it. Maybe it was both? Easier to gloss over scars unacknowledged as fingertips do – with a light touch and an unwillingness to dwell.

…

The poison was especially unpleasant, afflicting me with a gut-churning nausea which left me alternatively vomiting blood and sipping healing Estus from my flask.

I hadn’t even bothered _bringing_ my bow, knowing I’d never get the stink out of it, but, admittedly, I did wonder if perhaps I should have. Maybe bought one of Greirat’s for… well, as a beater, I suppose. The old thief had a number of fine weapons he’d pilfered from the now-mindless Hollows of the Undead Settlement, but he had a fair number of ‘ _fix’er-uppers_ ’, too, and there’s something to be said for a ‘beater’ weapon, wouldn’t you agree?

Even something no longer suited for regular use could find purpose in such things.

I tried not to relate to that sentiment, but- they called us _Unkindled_ , for the Goddess’ sake.

My side-sword, too, had been left behind, in favor of what Greirat affectionately referred to as a ‘Bandit’s knife’ – a wide, single-edged knife, well-suited for close encounters and cutting throats. It was perfectly-suited for scrambling through the muck like this. My spear, I hadn’t been willing to leave behind, and it hovered in the in-between space wherein all the gear I didn’t carry on my person was stored – there were only so many quickly-available spots, though, and I kept it to the essentials when it came to quick access.

I headed towards a ruined tower, expecting it to house some kind of treasure – adventurer’s instincts, I guess?

The treasure, I was right about – a coal, of the sort Andre could use to infuse weapons – but the man with the skull mask, the ugly sword (really, it was just… _no_! Goddess, have some self-respect!), and the very unfriendly-looking dark armor had been very insistent on chopping me to pieces, and, honestly? I hadn’t put up much of a fight. I grabbed the loot and let it happen. Dying was better than having to navigate my way back out of that damnable swamp anyways.

By this point, I was Hollowing somewhat – wearing the ring I had purchased from Yuria to keep myself from turning gross, yes – but the feeling of it was pretty unpleasant. My Darksign – the black ring which marked me, _branded_ me, as Undead – burned with an unsettling sort of (false?) heat, a sensation that intensified the more I allowed the Undead Curse to build up within me. Within my soul? I am, and was, genuinely uncertain about that.

Well, I say the Darksign ‘burned,’ but I think I should clarify.

My Darksign was centered between the splotches of scar tissue where my wings had once been, for the record – it seemed to me as if everyone’s Darksign was somewhere a little different, although I hadn’t seen any off of the torso.

Despite being a… a symbol, almost like a tattoo, the Darksign burns, literally, in the on-fire sense of the word. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you that symbols are not things that are typically capable of being on fire, though their mediums often are; with the Darksign, the symbol burns, but the body doesn’t.

After another visit to Firelink, I redirected my efforts, instead making for the Cathedral of the Deep. A purging stone, purchased from dear Yuria of Londor, eased my Hollowing, returned the plumpness to my cheeks and the shine to my hair, and… I know that sounds vain, but I serve a goddess of love and beauty. The feeling of withering away, feeling my beauty waste away… it unsettles me spiritually and emotionally as much as viscerally.

Ah, and I had the Firekeeper help me into a different set of armor while I was there – it had been a gift from a fellow Unkindled, and was supposedly the harness of a knight called Alva, who was once a legendary sort of figure.

“Ashen one,” she admonished, her flame-touched palm upon my bared stomach, “thy form- thou’rt neglecting thyself, art thou not?”

I had lost a bit of weight, admittedly, but- I couldn’t say that to the Firekeeper’s worried face, you know?

“I’ve been getting a lot of exercise,” I said, which was very far from untrue.

“Yet meals elude thee?” The Firekeeper traced the musculature of my abdomen with two fingertips, her touch light and warm. An expression between a pout and a frown lingered on her lips, and part of me longed to kiss it away – admittedly, I gave the idea more consideration than I probably should have.

“Thou’st lost much weight.” She said at length, concern evident in her voice. “I pray thee, do not neglect thyself. Eat, or I shall entreat Dame Sirris to make thee.”

I gawked at the silver-haired woman before me, almost unbelieving. “… This is really that important to you?”

“It is indeed.” Still her voice was quiet, but I recognized in it a firmness, one which, in that moment – as I looked back on those past few minutes – I realized had been steadily building over the course of the conversation. Building to the peak of her firmness, those three little words.

Whatever it is I would have needed to muster up in order to argue with the Firekeeper, I know not, but I hadn’t the will to do so anyways. Fighting with someone who was genuinely concerned for my well-being was a bit beyond my capability, I guess.

“I’ll try and do what I can.” I relented, and the Firekeeper smiled up at me, hand still on my abs.

“Thank you, Orianna.” She said, and I marveled that she’d finally used my name.

  


* * *

  


Eygon of Carim, the chauvinist knight with the horrifying great-mace wreathed in faces, aided me in battling a ‘Crystal Sage,’ an inhuman wizard who barred the way to the Cathedral where Aldrich supposedly resided.

The fight… frankly, it wasn’t very noteworthy. My spear-hammer and his greathammer made relatively quick work of the mage and the copies of itself it summoned, and his crystalline ‘soul-spear’ sorceries were ponderous enough to be avoided with relative ease.

Eygon’s attitude towards dear, sweet Irina troubled me far more than the Sage.

I had almost struck him for his… _unkind_ _remarks_ , back when I’d first encountered the sorry bastard at the Undead Settlement, and our subsequent meetings and cooperation hadn’t done much to change my opinion of the man.

I decided to take the time to offer assistance to other Unkindled, in other worlds, and switched out my heraldry, swapping the sword-and-crescent-moon of the Blue Sentinels covenant for the jolly sun of the Warriors of Sunlight. The inscription my White Soapstone left turned a glorious, radiant gold a split-second after the white of the marking was left, and I enjoyed the effect rather a lot; golden light racing along, just a hair behind the stone as I left my ‘sign’.

At least a dozen fellow Champions of Ash summoned me to their own versions of Lothric. Might have been fifteen or sixteen? And I came out of it with ten more sunlight medallions than I’d started with – tokens of a covenant fulfilled – and enough souls to strengthen myself a fair bit.

Which is precisely what I did.

  


* * *

  


The giant slaves and resident knights of the Cathedral of the Deep took their toll on my morale, and some jerk with a bad Siegward impression (who had stolen and donned the honorable Onion Knight’s very unique ~~and possibly delicious~~ armor) managed to drop a gate-bridge when I was trying to cross it, only to realize I had long since slain the towering duo: he had wanted to send me down to the swampy ground floor to be stomped on by a giant.

He’d been in the middle of cursing me out – he seemed really pissed off – when I’d hurled a lightning spear at him, missing his bald head by a hand’s breadth, but successfully putting the fear of the gods into him. That had prompted him to call me a ‘rotten cleric’, which stung a bit more than perhaps it should have. I was hiding my face within my helm for good reason, after all, and that reason- well, it wasn’t that I _wasn’t_ Hollowing, that’s for sure.

By the time I’d reached Aldrich’s tomb and explored the place to my satisfaction, my face was sunken and spooky, and I used a purging stone to wipe away my curse when I saw a trio of soapstone marks – the summoning-signs of Anri of Astora, Horace the Hushed, and Sirris of the Sunless Realms.

I summoned Anri first, of course.

They rose from the writing on the floor as whatever magic the soapstone possessed drew the Astoran knight to my version of the Cathedral, bowing their helmed head respectfully.

“Lady Orianna.”

“Good Knight.” I replied, and made a sweeping bow that sent the pair of us into a brief bout of titters, “How’s Horace?”

“Horace is well! And you, my lady?”

I snorted as they bowed. “Well, this Cathedral’s been giving me a rough time, but- I’m here, aren’t I?”

Anri snorted, the sound echoing tinnily in their helm, and raised their visor to smile at me. “Indeed you are, friend. I must admit, the prospect of facing Aldrich has me equal parts nervous and excited.”

After brushing a lock of fair hair out of their eyes – and _Goddess_ was Anri _pretty_ , but I was afraid to tell them I thought so at the time, because my love of women was well-known and I didn’t yet know what they were comfortable with – I grinned down at the knight and laughed, “You’re going to let me eat the first failed attempt, then?”

Sometimes I still catch myself almost calling Anri ‘she’ or the like – they’ve told me it’s alright, but that just makes me feel worse, you know?

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” Anri quipped.

“How noble of you.” I put a hand to my heart (breastplate) and, after a moment, tilted my head towards Sirris’ soapstone marking, down at the bottom of the stairs leading to the conspicuous doorway which was filled with fog. “If I may be so bold as to ask a favor of you, though, would you help me make sure I’m presentable?”

“You really are taken with Dame Sirris, aren’t you?”

“It seems that way.”

The gentle knight did my hair as I polished the blood and grime from my armor, and then we summoned Horace – who, being mute, said nothing, of course. Well, we used that dried old finger-on-a-string first, to strengthen the connections between our worlds, but only because I very much disliked the idea of Sirris’ sign disappearing and wasn’t willing to chance it. Horace and Anri, despite traveling together, did _technically_ have separate worlds, and now that Anri was in mine, Horace’s had split off into _just_ his own.

Their time as traveling companions was an astounding resource on the connections between worlds, by the by. I had visited their world(s) as a Blue Phantom a few times by that point, in accordance with an ancient compact I wasn’t actually familiar with, and had discussed the matter at some decent length while waiting for Horace’s world to cross back over with Anri’s again. After defeating whatever Dark Spirit had invaded the good knight’s world in search of embers to plunder, that is.

With the noble Astorans at my back, I headed down the stairs and summoned fair Sirris, taking a knee as her summon-sign pulsed and drew her into my version of the Cathedral of the Deep.

As she materialized, she recognized the gesture – one of loyalty to the Darkmoon – with a faint smile, and offered me a hand. I took it, which shouldn’t surprise you, and she helped me upright.

“It is good to see you well, Lady,” Sirris said, and bowed her head to plant a kiss upon the back of my hand – and never have I felt such resentment towards gloves and gauntlets as I did in that moment. She raised her head to look up at me, wreathed in the pure white aura of a White Phantom, and remarked, “It has been some time.”

Goddess give me strength, but I half-expected her to say something like, _‘and you are every bit as beautiful as I remember – perhaps even more_ _so_ _.’_

“Indeed it has,” I agreed, adding, “and I would have you call me Orianna, if you are amenable.”

“Very well, Orianna.” A thoughtful pause. “If we are eschewing formalities, I would ask that you call me Sirris, if it please you.”

As if the smile on my weird, gray mouth wasn’t answer enough, I said, “The pleasure I take from that is no pittance, Sirris.”

Smiling back – properly, now, with pearly-white teeth peeking out between thin-but-full lips – Sirris replied, “Then I must confess I was remiss in my greeting, for I failed to inform you of a matter most dire. I fear some form of enchantment has been worked upon you – must have been – for you are yet lovelier than I am able to recall, and more radiant still.”

“If I didn’t know better,” I said, thanking the Goddess I had thought to have Anri help me clean up beforehand, “I might suspect you of flattery.”

She gasped in mock offense. “I would _never_!”

“The good knight Anri, of Astora, helped me in dressing my hair not long ago-”

“Brilliant,” Sirris interjected, “mayhap they shall be of assistance in unraveling this beauteous pall cast over your person.”

“Indeed, but first we must aid them in vanquishing the foe beyond yonder veil of fog!” I proclaimed, because we could really only torment Anri and Horace like this for so long.

The four of us met briefly to discuss what little we knew or suspected of Aldrich, ignorant as we were, and I swear- when I said, _‘May the Goddess of Beauty bless us all,’_ before we strode through the fog?

I could’ve sworn I heard Sirris mutter something like, ‘She already has.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DS3's note options are weak, I've been spoiled by Bloodborne;;
> 
> Also Creighton kicked our asses, holy shit


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deacons of the Deep have quarrel with the dork brigade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ori has... abandonment issues, I think?  
> Terminology is for people who know things

Sirris was the first to fall.

Her scream, a shrill cry of anguish, nearly set me Hollow on the spot – insofar as such a thing could happen, leastaways – and my heart throbbed in empathetic hurt. It sent a chill down the length of my spine, one which should have continued all the way through my tail, except someone had seen fit to chop that off, too.

I struck down another handful of priests with a horizontal swipe of my hammer-spear, and resolved to do whatever I could to ensure I never had cause to hear the knight cry out like that again.

Rather than Aldrich, we had found dozens and dozens of somewhat-Hollowed(?) priests when we crossed the fog, crowded before a colossal marble coffin. The Deacons of the Deep.

Each priest was a spell-caster, and fireballs lanced towards us in number, ponderous but deadly enough still.

We cut them down quickly and without much trouble, but every Deacon felled was quickly replaced, and we made no appreciable headway in the scant minutes between our entrance and Sirris’ demise.

Horace died next, with a grunt and a clatter of steel on the tiled floor.

Anri and I were felled as one. We stood back-to-back, our armor plates touching, and struck all about ourselves with spear and sword. Between us, we slew a fair few priests, but a battle of attrition wasn’t one we could win, and a final orb of flame struck us from the side, and we were laid low.

…

It’s difficult to say how long it takes to return from death, really. You just… die, turn to ash, and awaken at a bonfire in the next instant. It’s like sleeping that way – you close your eyes, and when you open them you’ve rested, and it’s morning. Only, you can reasonably guess how long you’ve slept, and, even if you’re exhausted, you can be pretty sure you’re not going to sleep for more than a day or two.

In Lothric, it’s– well, personally, I suspect it’s not consistent. Might be hours, some times, and days other times.

We’re all Undead, after all. Centuries could pass and we’d have little way to know for sure.

Regardless.

After making sure I wasn’t going all sunken-faced, I retrieved the so-called Hollowslayer Greatsword from my stash and made my way back to the fog door, crushing an Ember in my hand as I went on my way, letting flame smolder within me, that my world and the worlds of my comrades might be beckoned closer to one another.

I summoned Sirris and Anri again, and left Horace to his own devices – his halberd, while lengthy, had seemed to struggle cutting down robed figures in number, and I didn’t like using the weird knucklebone thing. Just made me a bit uncomfortable, you know? Besides, his sign hadn’t appeared – Anri would later clarify that he’d experienced some equipment breakage.

We consulted briefly with one another, Sirris indicating she’d seen a red aura highlighting one of the deacons, and Anri mentioning having slain one priest thus marked – and watched that red glow be passed on to another priest.

“I didn’t pay it much mind,” they admitted, with a shrug of their shoulders – which I thought was pretty impressive in full plate, “I’m sorry.”

…

We really just sort of charged in, this time stabbing anyone who glowed.

Well, no– I was cutting, primarily, which… well, it’s kind of unusual for me, what with the holy spear and all. It was easier than I expected, to be honest, though I’d only had Andre reinforce the two-handed sword with one titanite scale – it was a deceptively-handy weapon, and a ‘Hollowslayer’ indeed: I could _feel_ the blade humming as it met Hollow flesh, as if so repulsed by the nature of those who had lost their Humanity that it oscillated through their bodies. As if it were a magnet being repelled at once from above and below.

After a couple repetitions of ‘cut down the red guy,’ ‘follow the light and stab whichever deacon it possesses’ and ‘notice Sirris is really pretty,’ an… Archdeacon, I guess? Appeared, surrounded by four slightly-larger blue fellows.

The three of us slaughtered them like- well, like two knights and a herald falling upon a handful of possibly-overweight priests.

That is to say, they didn’t come out of it so well.

I drove my blade through one of the blue-robed priests from behind, then kicked him off of the weapon and slammed the point of my shield’s bottom lip down into the back of his neck, splattering the enchanted blue shield with half-rotted blood and powdering his spine. One of their candlestick swords, wielded by a man behind me, skittered off of the pauldron* protecting my shield-arm’s shoulder, its blade dancing inwards, towards my neck, only to be caught by the raised stopping-rib of my gardbrace. Whatever articulation was afforded by the combination of straps and rivets securing that piece, it allowed enough _give_ for the plate to shift with the blow, allowing the blade to ride the stopping-rib a little ways – giving it a brief period of deceleration before the abrupt **stop** at the end of its travel.

Softening the blow, in other words.

> _* Technically the gardbrace, but **you** try using ‘gardbrace’ twice in a sentence and see how many people know what the hell you’re talking about. It won’t be many, because I legitimately had to go ask Andre what that over-pauldron was called. On a related note: _apparently _the ridge on the gardbrace, which I called the ‘stopping-rib’, may be more correctly referred to as a/the ‘stop rib’? Keep in mind I’ve only got one source – for what it’s worth, though, I chose ‘stopping-rib’ because it sounds better, and I feel wording it thus makes it a little clearer that it is_ _**a rib for stopping things**_ , _rather than, say, a rib which serves as a ‘stop’._

As quickly as I whirled around, it wasn’t fast enough, and the… pommel? Of another brassy sword met my helmet, catching me under my visor and giving my jaw a bashing I don’t think it particularly needed. My vision swam, and I staggered a half-step back and to the side, falling to one knee, and realized that, at some point, I’d been encircled by belligerent friars.

Hardly ideal.

One of them raised his candlestick sword, using its holy (and also _holey_ , funnily enough) blade as a catalyst to conjure a-

You know, it’s only occurring to me now that it’s very odd that others can cast fire _sorceries_ , but we… mortals? Unkindled. We _Unkindled_ can only cast ‘soul’ sorceries and pyromancies. Miracles are their own thing, too. _We_ have to use the proper tools for things – catalysts for sorceries, talismans and chimes for miracles, and a Flame for pyromancies – but the Deacons can use ‘holy’ catalysts to launch fireballs? The witches in the Boreal Valley can cast pyromancies with a catalyst, too – or else fire sorceries. I’ve not had the chance to converse much with one as of yet, but I’ll be certain to ask my fire-witch friend about it, should I ever end up making a fire-witch friend.

The shimmering heat-mirage of an uncomfortably-large orb of flame was just beginning to manifest when an estoc wreathed in purple light burst through his side with a puff of red mist that could only be called ‘dainty’.

A gauntleted hand grabbed me beneath the arm and hoisted me upright, then, and an Astoran arming sword darted out through the space I’d just occupied, its warmed steel edge biting into the shoulder of a particularly rotund priest. That priest didn’t seem particularly fazed by the attack, but it had certainly bought me time to let my Pyromancy Flame blossom to life in the palm of my hand, the titanite vinework in my arm flaring an angry red (which looked more like a disgruntled pinkish red in reality, given it had to glow through my skin) as I loosed a Greater Combustion on the poor bastard. A snap of my fingers, a great rush of flame, and the big priest wasn’t there anymore.

Anri whistled appreciatively, taking a moment to admire my handiwork, then unceremoniously hauled me about, their strength such that my size (and my size is _not_ trivial; I stand around six inches taller than the Astoran, and they’ve gotta be at least five-foot-ten) wasn’t a hindrance at all. They pointed me in the direction of the fanciest priest in the room, the guy with the big hat, and that was all the more instruction I needed. I bounded for the Archdeacon, paying the remaining two blue-robes of his retinue no heed; my comrades would surely deal with them!

A pair of inky, shadowy projectiles drifted lazily over me as I dove-and-rolled under them, noting that they angled towards me a bit in-flight.

Dark magic, I supposed, was weird.

I was upon their leader before further arcane marvels could be sent my way. My opening thrust went a bit wide, still making contact, but only inflicting a slow-bleeding flesh wound in the Archdeacon’s side. Undaunted, I recovered, shrugging off a sword-blow stopped by the plate covering my lower back and opening a bloody rent across the Archdeacon’s chest with a slash of my own.

Sirris and Anri fell in on either side of me, covering what ground my own sword couldn’t, and gave me enough breathing room to focus down the head Deacon. Since they were being so kind, I obliged, slashing left-to-right across the Archdeacon’s stomach, keeping him on his back foot. He countered by ringing my helm like a bell, which was unpleasant, but I repaid him by taking my sword in two hands, then taking his head in one stroke.

It disintegrated into gray ash before it hit the floor – goofy hat and all – and his body promptly followed suit, even the spray of gore from his neck turning to ash by the droplet.

When the Archdeacon fell, his subordinates, too, dissolved, and the room went quite for a moment, only the crackling of a new bonfire and our heavy breathing interrupting the stillness… until Anri tore off their helmet and laughed, and Sirris brought a hand to her face to stifle a giggle, and then _I_ couldn’t help but-

We were all laughing, then, is the point.

I sheathed my oversized sword – the weapon of some hero of old, a knight of Mirrah – and scooped Sirris up, my arms ‘round her thighs. She laughed harder, then, and sat back on my forearms. I spun her about, letting the joy of an anticlimax wash over me, Aldrich the furthest thing from my mind.

And then both of them disappeared back to their own worlds, leaving me alone, in the quiet.

I fell to my knees as Aldrich raced back into my thoughts.

He was _gone_.

 _Goddess_.

The Darksign burned in my breast – it wasn’t located there, mind you, but that’s where I felt it. I offered a prayer to my Goddess, the act making me cognizant of the fact that I hadn’t heard Her voice since my awakening in Lothric. She had frequently taken the time to speak with me – I was a _favored soul_. The Goddess was a mother and a sister and a friend and-

The Ember burning within me – pilfered (or, if you’ll allow me to suggest term which is potentially more accurate, but unpleasant for that very reason and more besides: _inherited_ ) from the Archdeacon, of course, as was the way of things in Lothric – heated the tears trickling down my cheeks, as if my hurt was some kind of joke. My voice came out of me in a pitiful whimper, my words directed to no-one at all.

  


“I can’t do this.” I lamented. “Not alone.”

 

_Behind me, a tiny voice whispered:_

“ _Wherever you go, the moon still sets in Irithyll. Wherever you may be, Irithyll is your home.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ori voice: 'No, seriously, I'm really tall.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orianna, Sirris, and some random Warrior of Sunlight take on the Abyss Watchers.
> 
> Then, Ori goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a dreary sorta last few days, and airing out the house has meant letting the chill in.  
> Puts me in a Bloodborne sorta mood, so expect more Cages soon~!

I next saw Sirris a few days later, beyond the huge gates in the Farron Swamp. Her summon-sign was eagerly tapped, and I went to push open a pair of great doors beyond which I was certain the Abyss Watchers – the remnants of the Undead Legion, who collectively comprised one of the Lords of Cinder – waited.

The doors were stone, and their grinding upon the rough-hewn floor alerted some of the goat-people (Ghru, I’m told) behind me. My other summon, a jovial swordsman wielding twin scimitars, helped me heave the great doors open, and when Sirris was brought fully into my world, she called out cheerfully.

“Orianna-!”

And was promptly interrupted by the spears of the two Ghru our door-pushing had awoken.

Two of those fellows I had been killed by before, with the fearsome skull masks and the black armor, were on some kind of anti-Ghru crusade down the road. Up the road? Whichever.

Darkwraiths, them.

They made a lot of noise, and I didn’t realize Sirris was being stabbed in a corner until I heard her incant a healing miracle, heard the ringing swooshy sound of a golden magic circle engraving itself upon the ground beneath her feet.

I rushed to her aid, burying the tip of my spear in one of the creatures’ throats, the other fellow springing forth after me, his twin swords biting deep into fuzzy flesh. Between us, we managed to buy the knight of the Sunless Realms some breathing room – enough to bury her estoc in a furry chest and subsequently dislodge the now-dead Ghru from the sword with a well-placed boot.

With a deft swipe of a scimitar, our Sunlight Warrior comrade opened the throat of another Ghru who had come to investigate the Darkwraith-less commotion (in his defense, I think I would have found any other commotion to investigate, too), and I rushed through the recently-opened doors in time to watch an Undead Legionnaire run one of his fellows through, burying his greatsword in the man’s chest until the quillons met flesh. Or mail, more likely, but it didn’t make much difference, because that man was _extremely_ dead. _Exceptionally_ dead. Exceedingly dead.

Their conical helms shone in the dim light of the arena – and it truly was an arena, rectangular and occupied only by bodies (in great numbers) and folks who still had the capacity to stab people (about four or so, in that moment, assuming Sirris and Mr. Sunny were hot on my heels) – and the victor of the ‘little friendly fire incident’ turned to face me. He struck a pose, then; greatsword held out, point… let’s say... thirty degrees up from horizontal? Angled forward and up, in what might be a ready position were it not a greatsword and were he not posing. His awkward, reverse-grip, sort-of-karambit-like dagger, clutched in the left hand, was held near his upper bicep, such that his arm was brought ‘cross his chest; in combination with the weapon positioning, he glowered at me from beneath a lowered brow (and the steel rim of his cap-like helm above that), his withering stare that of a Hollow who was himself withered.

In hindsight, I can tell you that it’s the same look Horace gave me in his last moments. Smoldering hatred, blind and stupid. The eyes of a Hollow, robbed of… of personhood? Of the _self_. Intelligent as any desperate man – no less capable of the arithmetic of combat than the warrior they had been in life (“life”, if you want to be insensitive about it) – yet devoid of anything beyond the barest scraps of personality and the innate, animalistic compulsion to survive. Had I sent Anri to meet him, he would have attacked them without a second thought, and probably cut the good knight down. Anri was far, _far_ too kind to be able to take the necessary, metaphorical step back from that sort of situation, to distance themself (themselves?) from their feelings and just _fight back_.

The emptiness in that Hollow Legionnaire’s eye was the same I saw in Horace’s when he lunged at me with his wood-hafted halberd. When I brought the lip of my shield down on a mend in the shaft which was my own personal handiwork – _I_ made that glue-joint, _I_ embedded the length of threaded rod that strengthened it, _I_ bade him to have a smith fit a new haft as soon as he was able – and it split in two, the head splashing harmlessly into the shallow standing water. When I lunged at the same moment. When my hammer-spear was faster. When my spearhead was embedded to the hammer-wings beneath his throat, blood gurgling from his mouth.

I hadn’t broken his halberd out of necessity, nor out of cruelty. It had been self-preservation: winning with a halberd in my gut sounded grand and all, but winning _without_ that foot-long steel spike inside my abdomen? _That_ had seemed like a pretty good idea at the time.

...

Hindsight’s a bitch.

Standing there, facing down that Abyss Watcher, I had no idea that I had seen the last of Horace the Hushed just hours earlier. He and Anri had stopped by Firelink after the Cathedral of the Deep, and- _gods_ , I just didn’t _know_.

Sorry, I just…

It’s foolish to dwell on the past, I know that, but- it’s hard not to, sometimes.

Abruptly, the Legionnaire came rushing towards me, and I cocked back, cloth talisman in-hand, and threw a bolt of lightning in his stupid face. Understandably, this slowed him somewhat – sent him reeling – but, to his credit, it didn’t stop him. No, that shell of a man had faced down horrors greater than I, and a Lightning Spear wasn’t going to put him down. His greatsword hissed through the air, sending my companions sprawling to evade; I held fast, moving my enchanted shield to parry the blow, my eyes following his every move. The shock sent up my shield-arm when it intercepted and stopped the blow was tremendous, a jolt of pain and subsequent numbness which I ignored, _had_ _to_ ignore, because he was _there_ , his dagger poised to strike, and demanded an answer.

My response was a swift jab of my spear, into his gut, through old leather and rust-weakened mail, with the follow-up question of a thrust at his thigh, splitting mail and muscle alike, and with similar ease. Or difficulty, if you want to look at it that way, though the sharpness of my spear, combined with the added weight of its hammerhead wings, means it honestly _is_ an easy thing.

Immediately, he replied, wielding his crooked dagger like a pithy remark: quick, purposeful, and carrying deceptive impact which belied its rough, compact nature. The hooked tip bit into my side with unnerving ease, opening a long gash along my flank. Searing-hot pain followed the wickedly-sharp implement as it laid me open, and I hissed through my teeth, the sound echoing strangely in my helm.

Before he could press his advantage, I back-stepped, the rearward hop tearing his blade from my flesh – but also preventing further attack, and putting me perfectly in range for a snappy rejoinder he would very soon forget.

Because he’d be dead.

Because, with a great heave, I raised my spear – as one would do to thrust downwards, perhaps, simply lifting my arm so the haft was up, the point down, and my knuckles now facing inwards – putting my grip above my head, but following the motion through, letting my arm twist, turning the spear 180 degrees, then beyond. The weight of its striking surfaces put the balance out far enough to make using centrifugal force – or momentum, or _whatever –_ a simple matter, and allowing me to, for example, swing the weapon around my head like a great warhammer.

And, in swinging it thus, smite an Undead Legionnaire upon the temple, staving in his skull.

That steel cap of his was useful for something, though – it contained whatever horrible spray of gore might have erupted from the man, had he not been wearing it.

Another Abyss Watcher had risen, and was keeping Sirris and our sunny comrade on their toes, using the weight of his greatsword to leap around like mad.

I circled around him as a third Watcher rose, drawing Sunny’s attention when he bowled the poor swordsman over, his glowing red eyes fixed on my prey until the Warrior of Sunlight lashed out with his scimitars, demonstrating in a spray of blood why Red-Eye oughtn’t ignore him.

Sirris caught my eye, recognized my aim, and focused on poking and drawing our Watcher’s ire, her estoc a blur of purple lightning. The Legionnaire opted to bear her onslaught and power through it, and his greatsword made a horrible sound as it crunched and cut through the mail protecting her side, but I was in position behind him, then, and buried my spear wing-deep in his spine, and then Sirris put her sword through his eye, and he was dead as he could be rendered on such short notice.

Taking a knee and presenting her talisman, Sirris cast a healing miracle, and I stepped into its radius to benefit myself. I wasn’t the sturdiest of women, after all – though it had just been a dagger in my side, one or two more of those would have been _very_ bad news for me. So I let the golden light wash over me, fill my wound, _purify_ it. Watching her wounds heal did wonders for me, though – flesh growing back together, knitting itself whole, followed by her silken gambeson, then leather padding, then silvered mail – she and her garb were as good as new in an instant.

In this light, her eyes were a cool gray. Why could I see her eyes, you ask? That’s simple, darling– because they were turned my way, alight with relief at the sight of _my_ side’s recovery.

We couldn’t spare any time for further signs of mutual interest, however, as another Legionnaire sprouted up from the earth. Thus prompted, the fair knight of the Sunless Realms leapt into action, closing with the freshly-risen man in a flash of silver and steel.

With both Watchers engaged, I hung back, withdrawing my talisman and calling upon my Goddess to smite my foes. Whenever there was an opening, I’d hurl a lightning spear, each one landed peeling back leather and mail, brutally exploiting the way their armor was layered and segregated (the patches of interlinking chain – _mail_ – were relatively small, meaning the electric shock couldn’t dissipate overmuch). Our coordination, magic, and numbers were advantage enough that we had an easy time cleaning both Legionnaires up, and they fell in quick order.

There was a rumbling, then, as undulating streams of blood, thick as a tree, rose into the air and floated to the center of the arena. To a newly-risen Abyss Watcher.

“What the Hells?” I muttered, and then, his greatsword ablaze, the Legionnaire was upon me.

He was, in a word, ferocious.

All three of us engaged him, dipping back for sips of estus when his blade struck true.

Time and time again we struck him, but the man was no longer beholden to petty mortality. My spear bit into his sternum, his shoulder, his lower back, his arm – nothing slowed the Legionnaire. We didn’t panic, however, and instead doggedly fought on, sure that we could wear him down.

Sirris took a confident step forward, putting her whole body into a powerful lunge of her estoc, and drove it clear through the Watcher’s gullet, its blade erupting from the peak of his skull. Unfazed, he brought his sword back, and, using his crooked dagger for leverage, swept its flaming blade through the Darkmoon Knight as if mail, gambeson, flesh, and bone offered no resistance.

Her upper half hit the stone floor first, her legs staying upright for a moment before following suit.

All I could hear was her gurgling cry of agony as hot blood spilled from her, and then she was gone, and everything was red, and…

I whipped my shield at him, partly out of blind rage and partly to free up my hand, and rushed for the Legionnaire, taking my hammer-spear in both hands and smashing him to the floor with a great overhead swing. I think I may have been screaming something, then, but I can’t remember what. Either litanies of my Goddess, curses, or just a wordless cry of anger and hate and hurt.

He slashed at me with his sword, then, and I raised and dropped my hammer again, shattering bone between clavicle and shoulder. The fiery blade cut into my side, but plate armor wasn’t so easily sheared through, and I was too pissed to care whether or not there was an extra length of flaming steel in my flesh. It only got a few inches in, anyhow.

Another blow, this one to his face. Then another. And another.

Mechanically, I brought the hammer-spear down again and again, splattering myself in blood and bone, my heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears.

Time after time I struck, pulverizing the probably very-dead Abyss Watcher until nothing but cinders remained, and my grip flagged, and my spear clattered to the stone floor.

I supposed I had won, then.

…

Surely these cinders could sit on the throne, right? The Cinders of a Lord.

I scooped up my spear and half-walked, half-crawled to the wall only a few yards away. Dropped to my backside and pressed my back against it. Brought my knees to my chest, hot tears stinging my eyes, and pulled my helm free – pausing when I saw my reflection on the polished steel of the back of the helm. I hadn’t started Hollowing, not yet, but the dark circles under my eyes… those weren't’ makeup.

The Darksign burned more than the godsforsaken flaming greatsword had. More than the intricate titanite vinework woven beneath my flesh, which reinforced my Flame- strengthened my pyromancy.

Bitter laughter bubbled from my throat. I had done it. Defeated a Lord of Cinder.

What a fool I was. Just like I had before, I went and fell for some woman, only to trip over myself and watch her die, over and over again.

  


* * *

  


Hawkwood seemed equal parts mortified and delighted as I went to place the Cinders of the final Abyss Watcher upon the throne they’d abandoned.

“You offed the Lords of Cinder,” he said, “the Undead Legion… so that’s how the Lords are delivered to their thrones...” A rueful chuckle escaped him. “I pity the sorry souls. Is that _really_ Lordship’s last reward?” Again, he chuckled, bemused in the way only the crestfallen can be.

“The poor, wretched souls… be they Lord or legend, the curse shows no mercy.”

I placed the Legionnaire’s remains on the throne, then returned to the swordsman, taking a seat on the steps beside him.

He shook his head. “What a sham.”

“It all feels like a bad joke, doesn’t it?” I agreed. “Vagueries and violence, and we’re the punchline.”

For a time, he was quiet.

Then, he pressed a ring into my hands. “Take this. As thanks, for putting the miserable bastards out of their misery.” He pushed himself upright, turned, and made his way up the stairs and out of the shrine.

I didn’t ask what he was doing, or where he was headed. It wasn’t my business, and Hawkwood was a… solitary man.

Only after taking a few minutes to gather my thoughts did I rise, gripping my spear at its center of balance, and cross the shrine’s central chamber. Down the stairs I sat upon, across the floor, passing the bonfire midway. I was careful not to wake the gently-dozing Firekeeper, who napped on the stairs opposite Hawkwood’s haunt even as I climbed past her, and decided I’d spend some time with dear Irina when my business was done.

That business, of course, was with the little Lord Ludleth, the legless pygmy of Courland, and the only Lord of Cinder who saw fit to see his duty through.

“Ahh, Lady Orianna, our most illustrious Lordseeker.” He crowed as I neared him. “Or should I say Lord- _Slayer_?” He laughed, almost cackled. “Fine kindling for the thrones, is it not? Each soul truly worthy of Lordship.”

Ludleth didn’t turn to face me, or anything of the sort. Just… rested his chin upon his interlaced fingers and looked out across Firelink. His tone grew wistful, then. “And all slain by thy hand… to bind them to their thrones, even in death...”

I slipped away quietly. It seemed pretty clear he wasn’t talking to me, if you catch my meaning. Best to leave him be; I could find out what the Watchers’ soul could be transposed into later (and then use it for souls instead).

Irina looked up at me as I dropped down to the lower level where she sat, sightless eyes fixing on the splashing caused by my landing. Why the Shrine had so much standing water down there, I didn’t know, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone.

“… Orianna?” She called softly, apprehensive

“It’s me,” I replied, and made my way over to her, careful not to splash. I didn’t want to sully her maidenly robes – they were much too white for that to be acceptable – and splashing her or myself in general wasn’t something I was especially keen on.

“Ahh, Champion of Ash, welcome back. Do you wish to hear a tale?”

“Later, maybe.” I smiled at the delicate saint. “For now, I thought I’d get some rest and keep you company. If you’d like.”

Irina smiled up at me from beneath her off-white hood. “Of course, sweet Champion.”

The nun had a… not a fondness, necessarily, but… she was comforted by physical contact, and I was – well, I’ve always been an affectionate person. Hugs, cuddling, and wrapping people I cared about up in my wings (the technical term is ‘winghug’, for the record)…

I seated myself beside her on the stone floor, and leaned into her a little, draping an arm across her shoulders and pulling her scrawny form inwards, wordlessly encouraging her to share in my warmth.

Having just slain a powerful foe, I was, of course, ‘embered’. Enkindled, if you prefer. My natural warmth was enhanced by the strength of fire, which blazed within my bosom and marked me as Ash.

Irina complied and shuffled closer, leaning into me heavily – as heavily as someone as feather-light as Irina could, that is – and resting her head on my shoulder.

Thus arranged, and thus comforted by our mutual closeness, Irina and I quickly drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods, poor Sirris;;
> 
> Also, please make sure to maintain your carbon monoxide detectors properly, they might save your ass!


End file.
